


Uncertain

by izzyb



Series: Alphabet [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-18
Updated: 2010-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 19:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzyb/pseuds/izzyb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course she doubts herself--it's hard to be strong all the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncertain

Of course she doubts herself—it's hard to be strong all the time. But she, like many of the new cadets, exudes enough confidence (she through her acerbic wit) that some may say she's arrogant. In this case, she uses her innate sense of sarcasm to hide what she's feeling. Or nor feeling. Not that she would admit it. Normally, that is.

So when she's told by her Cultural Relations professor that she needs to show her _true_ emotions, she grits her teeth and pretends that she's pouring out her _feelings_ during counseling time instead of Making Shit Up. She pretends that someone sitting that close to her during the required role-playing session is not making the hairs on the back of her neck raise and her fingers yearn to clench into a tight fist and punch them.

She pretends, but she drops the façade as soon as she exits the lecture hall. The emotions stirred up by watching one, then another cadet succumb to the _bullshit_ being dealt to them about dropping barriers and opening themselves up to change is taxing and she's shaking by the time she makes it to his apartment.

She drops her bag on the floor by the door and starts pacing. "I can't do this anymore. It's a crap class that is useless—I have empathy, damn it! I can show empathy for new people and/or new species without tearing my heart open and spilling it to relative strangers." Her hands go to her hair and she tugs at it making it spill down her back instead of in its usual intricate style.

He sits in his chair, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, his feet on the coffee table. And doesn't say a word through her rant, waits for her to wind down, sipping and listening.

"You should have an opinion—what's with this required class? Isn't it a waste of time?"

The glass is sweating when he places it on the table and he sits up. Then he holds his hand out to her and she stops her movements and goes to him, settling on his lap and soaking in the warmth of his skin through the T-shirt he'd put on after showering. His hair is still wet and she plays with the ends of it and waits for his answer.

"We learn to play by the rules, play their little game. It's not giving in—it's survival. Take this class, Christine, then go up into space with me and see how you _really_ relate to your patients—it's not going to matter when their lives are in your hands."

"So it's not bad that I don't tell them everything I feel?"

He snorts, stroking her hair away from her face. "Krashoff wouldn't be able to handle it if you told him exactly what you're thinking—though if you decide to do so, make sure you record it. You know, for posterity's sake."

She closes her eyes and leans against him, exhausted. "Sometimes I feel that I put up too many walls—close myself off from what people need from me."

"I broke through," he says softly.

As she traces his lips with her thumb, she remembers just how he'd broken through, how she'd fought him at first, how much time it took. And she realizes his reassurance is more than enough for now.


End file.
